Bitter Bliss: A Poetry Collection

Ah well.

Nothing makes sense

not now, not ever

I must have said it twenty times

but no one caught my drift.

(Maybe try being less obscure next time.)

Ah well.

(Will there be a next time?)

They are all lined up, 

nine named, then twenty-seven, 

then a hundred fifty-eight.

(It was tiring, but hey.

They deserve it.)

They march into battle

like plastic figurines.

They're meant to be expendable.

(Not to me.)

For every five that go out, 

two brothers will not return.

One dies alone, buried in rubble.

Another is covered in blood, 

helmet gone as they try to smile.

(I wish them to be next to me.)

Ah well.

More training, wasted. 

It's all such a waste.

(Truthfully, I don't think any of them

were ready to go.)